


a dance for two

by unveils



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-04
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-07-29 07:06:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7674853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unveils/pseuds/unveils
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tell you that to adequately inflict the pain of the spider, you must first know the life of a fly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a dance for two

 

 

**"WHAT IS YOUR NAME?"**

 

They tell you that to adequately inflict the pain of the spider, you must first know the life of a fly.

The first dance of a needle in the space between your eyes brings forth a scream like a wild animal in your throat, beating against the confines until it flutters out -- your vision goes red, blue, red, blue, red, blue --

black.

You see your mother, the way her face pinched the day you first flounced from your room wearing a tutu of pink and gold, ribbon-batons dancing from the tips your forefingers. The tutu flutters and weaves itself new as you twirl and spin, your mother’s laughter a gentle tether to the world beneath your feet -- graduation slip, bachelorette dress, wedding gown -- you wear them all until the hour the threads turn a startling, nightmare-black, and the batons vanish to reveal a letter from the theatre.

Your mother gathers you in her arms, twirls you both in a circle around the islands of the kitchen until her laughter pulls to a halt, and you’re alone -- left to settle against the nearest surface to steady yourself.

Somewhere, your father sobs.

Somewhere, you hear his shaking voice -- _she would want this for you, you know that._

Somewhere, the music picks up again, and you are swept into a stark spotlight. A hundred roses land at your feet as you twirl again, with more precision and grace than you’ve ever had in your life.

(Like a swan, like a swan, like a swan.

 _The name of the game is duality-- you must own the you in your shadow._ )

You are Amelie, one of the seventeen ballerinas of Comedie de Paris, and you will be the star of their next production: Black Swan.

You are Amelie, and your mother is dead.

Red, blue, red, blue, red.

Black.

It is your wedding day, and the spotlight is something altogether different.

Gerard Lacroix is a man of ever-many talents, and ever-many promises. He never once asks you to stop dancing, only offers his own feet in line with yours. Together, the two of you twirl through the streets of Paris -- he calls you Amy, settles the curve of his smile against your neck and finds his laughter there while the sun rises.

“I must be a selfish man to ask forever from you.”

Your laugh used to be a gentle thing.

“No more selfish than I for demanding you do so.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, and you settle against his side as sunlight pours in upon you both from an open window.

“It won’t always be so easy, Amy. The work I do is dangerous.”

“Then you’ll protect me.”

Gerard smiles.

Your name is Amelie Lacroix, and you are happy.

Red, blue, red, blue, red, blue.

Black.

 

 

**"WHAT ARE YOUR ALLEGIANCES?"**

 

There comes a moment when the screaming must end, when you must accept your fate for what it is.

It is a conscious decision to stop reaching for the soft echo of a promise in the back of your head -- the soft warmth of Gerard’s voice telling you that he’ll come if you just hold on. It is a conscious decision to let it stop. It is a conscious decision, and in that you find clarity among the heavy throngs of pain. Numbness erupts like a floodgate from the core of you -- vicious, all-consuming spiderwebs that spread themselves across your skin in heavy blooms of blue and black.

“Not bruises, but something else.”

The doctors speak in whispers above you, your eyes fixated on the steady blinking of the air conditioning unit above your table as it beats on-off every hour.

They tell you that your heart stopped beating while you were on the table.

They tell you that you should be dead.

(“No one survives a widowmaker heart attack.”)

You see your mother’s face contorting as she falls from the stage and her neck snaps. You hear Gerard making promises. You watch the spinning tale of your life fade to blue, red, black.

 

W҉̵͘H͞͠͞O҉̀ ̵̵̡́A͢͏͜͟͝R͏̢́̕͘E͡҉ ̸̶̡͘͏Y̴Ơ̸̕͠U̶

W҉̵͘H͞͠͞O҉̀ ̵̵̡́A͢͏͜͟͝R͏̢́̕͘E͡҉ ̸̶̡͘͏Y̴Ơ̸̕͠U̶

W҉̵͘H͞͠͞O҉̀ ̵̵̡́A͢͏͜͟͝R͏̢́̕͘E͡҉ ̸̶̡͘͏Y̴Ơ̸̕͠U̶

 

It is a stranger that finds you with shackles on your wrist, tied to the table. "Gerard" he says, like he's speaking to a child. Gerard does not hold you with a careful preciseness of something too valuable to break, nor cut into you with the sharp end of a scalpel. You just manage to keep from flinching when his fingers find the blooming of color on your face, dotted along the lines of your collarbone.

His eyes ask, “what did they do to you, Amy?”

His eyes ask what he won’t.

There is no air conditioning unit to fixate on when the emptiness sweeps through you at the sound of his muffled tears through the walls of your bedroom.

(W҉̵͘H͞͠͞O҉̀ ̵̵̡́A͢͏͜͟͝R͏̢́̕͘E͡҉ ̸̶̡͘͏Y̴Ơ̸̕͠U̶)

You think you must have learned hatred on the table. You think you must have learned it for the way the memories of fondness, of love and kindness and grace are gone, now. When you remember, you hate. When you remember--

(W̷͘H̡͜A͜T̴͘͝ ͏҉Ì̢̛́͜S͟͡҉ ̸̧́̕Y̷̸̧Ờ̶̶͠U̕͝R̴̢͟͝ ̸͢͝͠Ǹ̸͡͞A̢͡M̨͞͞E̴͡͡)

Gerard Lacroix is no longer the man that you danced with. Gerard Lacroix is the man who failed. Gerard Lacroix is the man who lied. Gerard Lacroix is the man who is _weak._

You watch the steady rise-fall of his chest while he sleeps, and you think every day of bloodshed. Of horror. Of breakable things.

You think of what you lost, and you grow in the darkness -- a wicked bloom of hardened thorns that spring from the space between your ribcage.

When you press the barrel of his gun to his temple and pull the trigger, you know what people will think -- that Talon was the one who did this to you, that Talon pressed the gun into your hands and gave you no choice.

But you know.

It was a conscious decision, made in the dark.

It was your life lost.

And then it was his.

 

 

 

**"DO YOU THINK YOU'VE HAD ENOUGH?"**

 

 

  
People ask you why you do what you do, and you think of the girl in the dark with the dancing feet.

You can't remember her name.

You are Widowmaker.

And this is what is left of you.

That is why.


End file.
